


Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

by for_steggy, Miss_Katherine (for_steggy)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_steggy/pseuds/for_steggy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_steggy/pseuds/Miss_Katherine
Summary: Peggy and Steve pieces that are going to rot here instead of in my folder. All unconnected, some canon, some au, etc.
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	1. Adjustments

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Doris Day song.

Peggy quickly finds, after a horrifying trip to a department store, that the quality and materials of twenty-first century clothing have devolved greatly from what they once were. And the _price_. She’s certain she offended at least one of the sales clerks with her stifled outburst.

The waist on mens fashions are lower, and ever popular T-shirts are something she can approve of, which makes procuring a number of suitable items for Steve fairly easy; particular and fastidious he may be, but their styles and opinions tend to align on the whole.

Still at a loss for her own wardrobe, a little online searching brings up results of _vintage_ and _1940’s authentic_ clothing websites, which Peggy hopefully clicks on, and finds to her bewilderment that the styles are neither accurate nor well made. How was a person supposed to find a decent frock in this abysmal century? Eventually Peggy discovers a local thrift store, and is surprised to find more than a few items from her own era in good repair.

It was a task searching through racks and racks of clothing that seemed to be so wastefully produced and carelessly disposed of; Having lived in a time of rationing, it was all too clear a representation of the 21st century mentality. In her time everything was made to last the test of time, clothes notwithstanding. Anyway, sorting through a thrift store was nothing in comparison to the sheer dread of walking into a mall with all of it’s flashy signs and over-bright colors.

A few wool skirts, some silky button down blouses, summer dresses, and a lucky find of a blue day dress with buttons down the front and a belt at the waist, for when she wants to feel extra nice. The ladies at the dressing room were unexpectedly friendly, and even persuaded her to try on a pair of dark denim jeans. Peggy has absolutely no idea who’s mother they belonged to, but the high waist and silhouette isn't a foreign concept by any means, and she has to admit that the wash suits her nicely; they’ll be her outdoor pants if Steve ever wants to go fishing.

How very American of her, she muses.

A few more stops to local boutiques, which to her shock are even more expensive than the larger stores, produce a pair of high quality sandals and a serviceable low heel, as well as some undergarments. They don’t have the structure of what she’s used to, but they’ll have to do.

Everything else she needed was found through online shopping, which was tremendously tedious and confusing. If Peggy didn't know how to order an item, it required instructions from another searched online article, which lead to another, which lead to another, which lead to _another._ In the end, she ended up with a few nicer options from a website called _Etsy_. Nothing too period appropriate (she doesn't want to stick out like a sore thumb), but simple and elegant. A red A-line dress, as well as a green one appropriate for work or a dinner out. However, no matter how much searching she does, no one seems to produce good nylons anymore. She supposes one can’t have everything.

She does miss her tactical apparel that was once appropriate for field work, but there isn't any need for wool trousers and leather jackets anymore, despite what Natasha tells her is “casual wear.” There has never been anything particularly casual about Peggy, and she feels no need to change that.

Cosmetics have their pros and cons. On one hand, there are more options for tone and color, lipstick ranges are vaster and longer lasting. But the packaging is cheap and feels disposable, and the appealing smells only add fuel to Peggy’s suspicion that there is something in it that _requires_ scent to cover it up. A little more research finds products made with safer ingredients, and she ends up with a small eye palette in cool earth tones, a black mascara, cream rouge, lipstick, lightweight powder (bless!), and more expensive skincare than she’d like to admit. It _is_ her years of accrued savings, after all.

The haircuts she sees now she can’t understand at all. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to them, and everywhere she goes they’re different. Some have long, some have short, some have color, but what unites it most is that seemingly no care was put into it at all. No one seems to pin curl there hair and no one uses a brush, for pity’s sake. She thinks for a moment that maybe it’s considered a style to have one’s hair unkempt, but dismisses the idea quickly as utterly ridiculous. It’s all very confusing, and Peggy doesn't trust anyone near her curls with the way most of it looks nowadays, so she decides to cut it herself. She had to do so in the war, so it isn't a hardship. While she’s at it she does Steve’s too. With the way modern men wear their hair, she won’t let him anywhere near a barber shop. She’ll be dead before she lets anyone mangle the perfect mop of hair that perpetually falls over his right eye, and she tells him so.

*

Some might say that all the stares they get walking down the street are because of their distinctly un-modern look, but Peggy is more insightful and she knows: It’s because they look good. Not that her vanity has grown in the ice, but it’s apparent few people nowadays make such an effort to look polished.

Sometimes when they sit at an outdoor cafe with a view of central park, more than a few people walk up to them and shyly compliment them on how “cool” or “retro” they look. Sometimes they’ll ask if she has an Instagram account for her outfits. More than anything Peggy is flattered. And she can’t really blame them if their eyes roam over Steve, although the flirting is not appreciated. Steve is ever polite and lets Peggy shoo them away as she sees fit.

It’s a comfort to be able to carve out some semblance of normality in trivial things. Together they find a little house in the suburbs. Although Steve had always thought of having an apartment in Brooklyn, that dream had always been set in Brooklyn 1945, with Bucky living next door. The city is far noisier and the pace much faster than even Steve the city dweller is used to. They are, the both of them, happy to have a space to make up exactly how they want; Steve plants bushes in the front beneath the windows. Rose bushes, Peggy realizes with a smile as he pulls his hands away from her eyes.

They have their missions and their new friends, but at the end of the day they are _home_ , a space undefined by time, wholly defined by love. And thankfully some things never change, like Steve’s goodness and his warm smile, his braveness in the face of adversity; as long as those things remain the same, the century around them is of smaller consequence. The difference they make in it is all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m apparently really keen on imagining Peggy Carter shopping in the 21st century. It didn't work anywhere else, so here ya go!


	2. Encouragement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wee peptalk.

Agent carter found him on the outskirts of camp, sketching. No dancing monkeys this time — now there are bombs going off, mangled jeeps. Steve looked tired.

She sat down wordlessly beside him. In a moment he said, “I didn't do enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know.”

It was general news around camp, that two men had been lost in a raid the previous day.

“You did what you could. That’s all you can do.”

“Still, it wasn't enough.”

She looked at him with steady conviction.“What do you think your purpose is here, hm?”The question seemed to confuse him.

“You’re not here to single handedly win the war, Captain.” Softer, she said, “You’re a good man, Steve. That has power. I don't think you quite understand just how much. We were a ragged disheartened bunch until you came along. You reminded us what we were fighting for, and that our God given right to live and die as free men is worth the pain and suffering to keep. That is what _you_ did for us. That means something.” She paused and hesitated. “I suppose what I mean to say, besides anything else is that…you have inspired _me,_ and that… your friendship means a great deal to me.” She had two pink spots on her cheeks.

Warmth settled into him. Steve felt as though he were sitting with just Peggy, and not _Agent Carter._ He had seen both, and he liked both, but this one was definitely more personal.

He suddenly felt shy for not knowing what to say; he would have liked to tell her so many things: how much he respected her, how much strength she gave him by her faith alone, how her dedication to good made him feel he wasn't alone in this world. He couldn't seem to say any of it, every formation of syllables feeling too inadequate to express the simple truth of the matter: that she had his heart. And, of course, he couldn't really say that at all.

He settled on a warm smile. She smiled back. Then Phillips barked over at her and he watched her walk off, giving him a quick glance over her shoulder. That glance carried him for weeks.


	3. when tomorrow comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy and Steve plan for the future, winter 1945.

Steve watched her face in the firelight. It made him wistful, even though he was sitting right next to her. There was no telling how long she would stay or when he would see her again. 

“What’ll we do when this is all over, you think?” He knew it was a stupid question, but it was the only one that mattered. Somewhere along the way it had become _we,_ and neither of them found they had any desire to change that. Each time it was uttered felt like nothing short of a declaration.

“I suppose we’ll become, oh…domestic,” Peggy contemplated.

He raised an eyebrow. “You?”

She ignored him. “I’ll unpick all your trouser cuffs and hem them back, and iron your shirttails, and you’ll make me coffee in the mornings and try to fix the leaky pipes under the sink. I’ll scold you about not getting your socks into the bin, and you’ll secretly find my habit of leaving pins on every surface horrid. We’ll freeze together in a little Brooklyn flat in the winter, and no doubt one or both of us will get pulled back into this kind of work, whether we want to or not; because lets face it, we’re both more than averagely attuned to a natural sense of responsibility. And, somehow, we’ll get on.”

He sat silent for a minute, the full picture playing out in front of him. “You really want that?” he asked earnestly.

“With you?” she said seriously, “Of course I do.”

He swallowed. “I had hoped…”

“It’s alright Steve,” she said softly, “I don't need a promise or a ring right now. I know who my right partner is. That’s good enough for me.”

He fished in his pocket. ‘Well, I was kinda hoping maybe you’d want this anyway.”

 _“Oh,”_ she breathed. He held out a gold ring to her. The two little hands met in the middle to make a heart, a small diamond held between them.

She took it between her fingers.

“It was my Ma’s. It’s the last thing of hers I managed to hold onto,” he told her. "Sent away for it from Mrs. Barnes."

Peggy looked down at the precious token in the firelight and then back up at him. It felt too special, too sacred. And then, with a startled laugh, she realized that no one else was more entitled to it than the new Mrs. Rogers; they had just discussed marriage, and Steve had given her a ring. Someday she would be his wife. This was real. This was a tangible, concrete promise for the future.

He watched her, waiting. " _Darling.”_ She wrapped her arms around his neck.

“I take it that’s a yes.”

“Yes,” she kissed him. Peggy held his face in her hands for a moment. They stared at each other. “We can’t tell anyone,” she said sadly.

“I know. That’s not what matters.”

She nodded. Together they sat in silence until Bucky came around to get Steve for his watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Les Mis because apparently I'm a basic musical fan like that


	4. Far too close for comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brush with death gives our couple some enlightenment.

Peggy stared down at him, his limp form cradled in her arms. He brought a weak hand up to her face, his thumb attempting to smooth away the deep crease between her brows.

“You _idiot,_ ” she said wetly.

He smiled weakly. “Hey, come on Peg, don’t be like th—“

“Don’t tell me how to be,” she snapped and her tears threatened to spill over. “Why, Steve? Is it that you have a bloody death wish, is that it?”

Peggy knew very well why. He was too good a man, with an irrational sense of duty. However, her default instinct was to buckle down when her emotions overcame her, and although too proud to say it, she was terribly afraid.

“My best girl.” He was going out like a light.

“You’re darn right I am,” she said fiercely. Peggy couldn’t take it anymore; she bent down and kissed him with enough force to make him wince. She gentled at the hand that came up to caress her hair. She let out a chocked sob, feeling weak and small and so utterly powerless. When she couldn't crouch over anymore, she straightened and slid a soothing hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Don’t do it, Steve. Don’t leave me.”

His eyes were half lidded. She could tell he was willing himself not to close them. “Ya Peg,” he whispered. They started to close.

“No, no!” she shouted. “Please, someone!”Distantly she could hear her own ragged breathing, and like a stranger watched her hands frantically scrabbling at his uniform, trying to shake him alive.

Barnes rushed in. “Get her outta here,” he bit out. She felt someone yank her away. They dragged out of the tent thrashing, desperate to get back.

“Hey, Peg, calm down. He’ll be alright.”

“You don’t know that!”

Dugan smiled tightly. “Sure I do.”

“No, he’s never been like this. _Never_.”

He turned her around and held her tightly. She buried her face in Dum Dum’s large teddybear chest and cried.

*

For several days Peggy sat by Steve’s bedside for as long as she could get away with. She talked to him softly and held his hand, and had to content herself that he was still breathing and that she was able to sweep the hair away from his face. There was hope. Not much, but there was. That had to be enough.

Barnes saw all this and never said anything. When she entered the tent he would simply nod at her and bring her a hot cup of coffee, for which she was ever so grateful. It was reassuring, knowing that between the two of them Steve was well taken care of.

The Howlies didn't question her frequent long disappearances either, and she didn't offer up an explanation. Peggy didn't feel a particular need to cover anymore; she had almost lost Steve; what would her silly rules have been good for then?

There was no telling how long Steve’s body would take to repair itself, or if at all, and in the meantime all they could do was speculate.

*

On the fifth day he awoke.

Steve blinked open his eyes to see Peggy sitting in a camp chair next to him, her head in her hands and looking more mussed than he had ever seen her, even on especially long missions. She seemed to feel his gaze and her head abruptly shot up.

 _“Steve.”_ A second later she lunged herself at him. When she pulled away her eyes were unaccountably damp. Through the wetness she could see he was looking at her a bit shyly.

“I think I’m still hallucinating from yesterday.”

She put her hand over his. “Five days ago. And I'm assuming you mean when I threw myself at you - no, not a hallucination.” She placed a gentle kiss on his lips for reassurance. His eyes went wide.

“You doubt it?”

“I—I didn't want to presume.”

Peggy laughed, “Presume all you like, Captain. I’m terribly glad you’re alright.”

“Really?” He asked again so earnestly that she laughed to keep from crying like a fool.

She nodded. “But it’s up to you what to do with that information. However I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Peggy leaned in conspiratorially.

He smiled. “What’s that?”

“I’m just dying to see Brooklyn.”

Steve thought he might be hallucinating after all.

He sat up despite the wince of pain from the movement. “ _Peggy_ —”

Barnes barged in, uncaring in the knowledge that he had interrupted. Steve pressed his mouth into a thin line and allowed his friend to fuss and mutter about, arranging cloth and forcing the meager portions on him. Peggy couldn't help but find the blustering, foolhardy Sergeant Barnes endearing with the way he clucked over Steve like a mother hen.

Eventually when Barnes left Steve looked on the verge of saying something rash. “Don’t,” she said quickly before he could. “Not now.” It would be best for the both of them if Peggy didn't let him make any promises he couldn't keep. That he wanted to was enough.

Steve didn't look quite happy to let the subject drop. ”I’ll stay,” she diverted, “but you must try and fall asleep.” He relaxed marginally and nodded.

Peggy watched his features soften, and could imagine exactly the kind of boy he had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh! look! no! plot.


	5. In an ideal world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life, the way it should have been.

“Steve!” Peggy called, “come get the door, my arms are full of groceries!”

He appeared at the entry and relieved her of her bags before setting them on the counter. Peggy moved about the kitchen putting things away while Steve leaned on the counter and watched her with a small, dreamy sort of smile on his face. Even after a month of being married he hadn't quite gotten used to the idea that Peggy Carter — Peggy _Rogers,_ he reminded himself _—_ was his wife.

“What are you on about,” she peeked around the cabinet.

“Nothin’.”

Peggy’s cheeks grew warm, and she shook her head. She walked over instead to the small breakfast table and picked up his open sketchbook. “What’ve you been up to?”

“I, uh—“

She whipped around out of his reach, examining the half finished drawing, and looked up at him knowingly. He scratched the back of his head. “You’re a good subject.”

Her gaze turned soft. “It’s alright, Steve. I’m mad about you too.” Peggy gave him a quick kiss and it felt like nothing short of a miracle that she went in for this sort of awkward fumbling.

“What do you want to do today?” she asked.

“We could dance,” Steve suggested.

Peggy grinned. “We can’t dance the _entire_ day, darling.”

Steve pretended to contemplate.

Ever since he had finally gotten that dance at the Stork Club, not quite 8 O’clock, he was determined never to miss a chance again. Dancing with Peggy was just like everything else they did together — perfect, not because it was perfect, but because she was the right partner.

“I could certainly stand up to the exercise, you on the other hand…” he smiled teasingly.

Peggy gasped, mock affronted. “That sounds like a challenge, Captain.” He grinned wider; she knew he loved it when she called him that.

Steve shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Fine,” she marched over to the record player, “I guess we’ll see who quits first.” He walked over and swept her up into a twirl and she laughed, resting her palms against his chest.

They both conceded defeat at around one in the morning (Steve, out of more politeness than anything, she was sure). Anyway, they had exhausted all the music. It turned out neither tired of dancing quickly.

Peggy sat on Steve’s lap in a heap, the apartment dark and quiet, and looked down into his face. “You look the same,” she said softly. “In little ways.” Steve looked up at her. “I loved you then, you know,” she murmured.

It started a few moments after. “I’m sorry, I don't know why I’m crying,” she whispered. He nodded and held her close.

Moments like these weren’t often, but it was accepted that they would come, and they braved them together.

*

Steve hadn't signed off on the SSR quite yet. Phillips was eager to sweep him up, but after plummeting to his death and then being found and waking up only to reenter the European theater, and later on the Pacific, Steve was just enjoying his time being a married man. He knew that he would inevitably fall back in, but for the moment renovating the spare room and working on his art was keeping him busy enough. So long as no imminent threat to America and her interests was afoot, he let Peggy do the heavy lifting on that front.

Steve was working on a new piece, trying his hand at oil painting when Peggy arrived home from the SSR offices in town. She snuck up behind him while he was deep in concentration and wrapped her arms around his face from behind. Steve smiled and she took her hands away.

“How was work?”

“Standard fare.” She rested her head on his shoulder and was silent for a moment, watching his progress. It was a scene from a little village in Italy. She remembered it well.

One evening, after a particularly grueling mission, he had found her sitting alone on the little hillside and sat down beside her. He didn't try to sooth or reason away her tears, he just wrapped his arms around his knees and watched with her as the sun set over the poppy field. On their walk back he stopped and picked one for her. She still had it, pressed neatly between the pages of her pocket medical guide.

She got lost in the memory as she watched him mix up the coral for the setting sun. “I’ll never forget that day,” she said softly.

Steve nodded grimly. “You watched that boy die. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Peggy objected, “that’s not what I was thinking of, or, at least only in part. I was remembering how afterwards you picked me a flower.”

A slightly embarrassed, fond smile crept onto his face at the memory. “Oh.”

“I don't think I ever told you how much it meant. Well, shall I start dinner?”

He sat up quickly. “I got it covered.”

Peggy quirked her eyebrows at him. In all the time she had known Steve she had never seen him make anything more that a can of beans over a camp fire. She followed him into the kitchen nonetheless. He opened the oven and pulled a golden bird out with a flourish. It went without saying that Peggy was impressed.

“Where on earth did you learn to do that?”

He smiled proudly. “Mrs. Barnes.”

“Well, tell Mrs. Barnes your wife is much obliged.”

Steve flushed a little. Peggy herself wasn’t half used to the term; she wanted to say it as often as possible.

*

The next day an envelope was slipped under their door. Peggy stared at it with a sense of dread.

“Hey what’s—“ Steve stopped and looked at it, then at her. She glanced at him, willing him not to pick it up.

He picked it up.

*

They didn't speak of it until after dinner, in bed.

Steve twisted his hair as he looked up at the ceiling. Peggy turned her head on his shoulder to look at him.

“It’s not enough, is it?”

He didn't respond immediately and she said, “Steve, I know you. You need to see for yourself.”

She would never ask him to give up the possibility of recovering his best friend. She of all people knew this terrible, restless, terrifying yet hopeful feeling. “The one thing I ask is that you let me go with you.”

He turned his head toward her and contemplated in that serious, ernest way he did. “Ok,” he said simply.

Peggy loved her husband possibly more at that moment than ever before.

“You’re sure you want to go?”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said softly. “The logical conclusion is that I come with. Someone has to watch your back, and I’m not quite ready to let you go yet. I’m afraid I’ve become rather attached.”

“Yeah?”

“Anywhere you go, I go, Captain.”

He liked that idea an awful lot. Probably too much.

“Now where are we off to? I’ll have to get a bag ready and make my excuses at work.”

Steve listened to her as she talked on to herself, musing over possible travel arrangements, and was suddenly hit with a strong bout of feeling - of gratitude and hope and disbelief at his good fortune.

He drifted off with his arms wrapped around her, the sound of her voice low and warm surrounding him.


End file.
